


Astraphobia

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Paracosm Timestamps [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Intimacy, M/M, Multi, Rough Sex, Storms, Threesome, established triad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:43:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4464185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Only a storm,” Hannibal assures him, and Anthony gives the man a dour look.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I know that.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Are you -” Will begins to ask. Anthony kisses him to quiet him, but it’s too late, really; however they do it, they know from a scent on the air, a look across his face, all the things that Anthony doesn’t have to tell them.</i>
</p><p>A summer storm startles some interesting revelations from our lovely triad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Astraphobia

**Author's Note:**

> Our amazing [noodle](http://noodletheelephant.tumblr.com/) beta'd this piece and we could not be more grateful :D

Wolf Trap is warm in summer.

More than warm. Hot. Sweltering, even, and houses as old as theirs weren’t built with air-conditioning. Anthony has lobbied for it; hell - he’s offered to pay for it himself. But the thought of having other people stomping through their space, uprooting this and that, disrupting the dogs and their quiet life, has proved a less popular option than merely weathering it out.

Pun intended.

Besides, Hannibal likes to see his partners this way, flushed pink and luminous. Will sits at his table, a fan blowing across his bare legs beneath so that the breeze doesn’t disrupt his detailed work. Squinting into his magnifier, he ignores the drip of sweat building at the tip of his nose, and wraps the thread around his lure once more.

Anthony returns with a bang of the screen door and two of the braver dogs who ventured out with him. In little more than snug black shorts that cling just beneath his ass, he’s all long limbs and smooth torso, tanned golden from lying out in the sun so long. _Working_ , he calls it, but to the others’ amusement it seems far less working than it is basking in the sun like a drowsy cat, sprawled along the wooden patio chair that appeared from the aether.

“It’s going to rain,” their poet announces. “That will either break the heat, or make it worse. Christ, it’s _miserable_ in here. You’re going to lose me to heat stroke.”

“You’re English,” Will reminds him.

“Thank God for small favors.” Anthony peers out the screen again, towards the darkening skies. “I don’t know how you stand it. The heat, I mean. And not being English.”

"For almost 40 years of my life I never felt it a burden."

"The heat?”

"Not being English."

Anthony turns a grin to Will and the other sits back, flexing his fingers to loosen them up again. He is hardly wearing more than Anthony is: his glasses, a pair of briefs and a thin sheen of sweat.

"You're lucky I like you so much."

"Oh, do you?"

"He does, quite intensely," Hannibal says, walking down the stairs dressed much like his beloved gentlemen. "I am almost jealous."

Anthony takes him in, the leonine strides and thick pelt across his chest and legs. He grins, crooked, and doesn’t bother turning away as Hannibal skims a hand down Will’s chest, kissing him upside down.

“I’m acquainted with the feeling,” Anthony says, his own lips hanging parted as if in sympathy to the tangle of mouths he watches.

“Jealousy?” Will finally asks.

“No. Intensely liking you.” A pause, and Anthony’s smile brightens again as he strolls towards the liquor cabinet. Cabinet, of course, is a generous description for what amounts to a desk beside the one where Will works, stacked with bottles of various liquors. He nearly makes it, too, but Hannibal’s hand is quick around his wrist, to reel him back in.

“Oh, don’t,” Anthony laughs, nose wrinkling as Will kisses the hand Hannibal holds, as Hannibal kisses the sweat from Anthony’s throat. “You, _dottore_ , I expect better from. This one,” he says, cupping Will’s chin with his hand. “This one’s from the States, he can’t help but be charmingly uncouth. You’re from the continent, at least, I thought that might have counted for something."

"Virility," Will offers, nuzzling into Anthony’s hand. It is too hot to cuddle together as they so often do. And yet they still spend hours in slick pleasure tangled together in bed, slippery and pleased. "He is insatiable."

"That is true, certainly." The poet sighs, tilting his head back as Hannibal nuzzles him there, licks the sweat from his skin. Hannibal pulls him closer and slides his hands down Anthony’s chest to the waistband of his underwear.

"Whiskey," Anthony sighs. “Ice. Lots of ice. And bed."

"On the rocks," Hannibal comments, as Will grins.

"Off your chest."

"Or yours, Will. You underestimate me."

"Rarely."

Anthony laughs, voice pitching high in sweet surrender to the two men who hold him - willingly - in sway. He cups Will’s cheek with one hand and lifts the other to tug Hannibal’s sleek locks straight. A kiss is pressed to Will’s mouth, bending low, and tugged free just as his lips part. Their poet grins wide and rights himself, spine slowly unfurling, and he gathers Hannibal’s mouth against his own in turn. A languid tangle joins them and Anthony pulls back with a sigh.

“Both of you,” he groans, before his voice eases into another chuckle. “Nightmares.”

Hannibal lets the waistband of Anthony’s underpants snap back against his skin as he pulls away. He takes a step back, another, fingers freeing from them before he drops his hands with a crooked grin and turns towards the kitchen.

Stroking through Will’s sweat-damp hair, Hannibal eases his husband’s hair back from his face.

“Shall we gather the fans, then?”

“I haven’t finished my lure,” Will says, eyes slipping closed beneath the older man’s firm, assured touch.

“There is time,” Hannibal tells him.

All they have here is time. All they have here is ease. A sanctuary for memories and comfort, a humble palace erected to shelter them all from the ravages that reality would pit against them.

Anthony passes by them again with a tumbler full of ice, dodging seeking hands with a laugh as he carries it towards the bed. It finds a place on the side table, the glass already sweating a ring to the well-worn wood beneath, and their poet drops himself heavy into the bed, kicking away the sheets that would cling to them.

He is a beautiful thing, a loved thing.

He hasn’t left Wolf Trap for several weeks now, and Will finds himself hoping he will choose not to for several weeks more.

Will nuzzles against his husband and bites his lip before letting him go. They have the fan at Will’s feet, powerful and good for the dogs in the main room. They have a taller fan that is by the bed, and another upstairs.

The windows they keep open in case a breeze, any breeze, will mercifully sweep by them. It has yet to, but perhaps the rain will bring some. Hannibal follows Anthony to bed first, and Will sets the fan to the floor by the dogs before moving upstairs to gather the third.

In bed, Hannibal rests over the poet on strong arms, smile lazy, eyes soft, and watches as Anthony reaches to set a cube of ice between his lips. Carefully, Hannibal lowers himself, lips parted over Anthony’s before pressing them together in a languid kiss, settling his body over the poet's as the ice melts between them.

Cool water swells and spills across their lips, rivulets running down Anthony cheeks and curving along his throat. He smiles, pressing upward in pleasure, holding the kiss and ice between them. Wrapping one hand around the doctor’s bicep, Anthony lifts the other to spread long fingers through his chest hair, curled dense with sweat.

The sudden gust from the fan brings moans from both men who lay pressed so close, and Will watches them for a moment more. Anthony’s eyes are open, just a little, watching Hannibal above him with a reverence that Will feels acutely. He and Anthony are just as close, good friends with a penchant for pinning each other into corners and allowing their hands to roam. But Anthony and Hannibal together are another dynamic entirely, two coiling creatures, one predatory and the other curious, one dominant and the other entirely happy to bare his belly in submission.

They part but their gazes hold, Anthony’s eyes hooding almost closed beneath the intensity of Hannibal’s look. He sucks the ice into his cheek and writhes as if to escape, at the same time trapping Hannibal’s hips with his leg slung across it. Down the poet’s bared neck, Hannibal follows the warming trail of water that spilled over from their kiss, and Anthony bucks against him with a helpless laugh.

When he lifts his eyes to Will, he extends a slender arm, fingers fanning. “Save me,” Anthony sighs.

Will smiles, steps closer, again, enough that Anthony’s fingers brush over Will’s thighs.

"And be snared myself?" he asks, playful and warm, reaching to stroke against damp skin as Hannibal continues to suck his way down their poet’s body. It is a strange thing to watch them, and Will is both jealous and not. It is a rush to see his husband with another man, and yet to know that both of them would, in a heartbeat, be devouring him just as thoroughly.

Triad.

Trust.

Respect.

Will reaches a little further and curses with a laugh as Hannibal's hand lashes out, quick as anything, to snare Will and unbalance him into bed. And then they are both upon him, lips and teeth and gentle nails, laughter and sweaty skin. Anthony presses a cold kiss against Will’s chest as Hannibal presses a hot one between his shoulders. It feels exquisite. 

They settle in a tangle, sheets kicked to the floor and hearts beating quickly against each other.

Anthony settles his cheek against Will’s shoulder, watching near and wide-eyed as Will and Hannibal tease each other into kissing softly. Brushes of lips, hardly touching, almost shy, drawing away the moment there’s contact, finding it again, and slowly, beautifully, fitting their mouths together to kiss longer. Hannibal’s eyes flicker open and meet Anthony’s gaze with amusement drawing fine lines towards his temples.

Anthony shivers from the look.

He envies them their nearness. They are joined together into a whole, the entire shape of which Anthony has never been able to fully see. Some trauma, some victory binds them as if their minds were conjoined, whole conversations taking place without a word, understanding depths that would smother an ordinary person with the weight and darkness therein. He envies them, but he knows that bond is not for him. He could not bear it.

And so he watches it between them, instead, with quiet awe and blissful wonder, content to bask on the beach of their affections that run deep as the bottomless sea.

A snap of thunder rattles the little house, and as quick as the dogs, Anthony sits up, heart pounding. Color darkens his fair cheeks almost immediately, lingering even as Will reaches for his hair to bring him back down and kiss the embarrassment from beneath his eyes.

“Only a storm,” Hannibal assures him, and Anthony gives the man a dour look.

“I know that.”

“Are you -” Will begins to ask. Anthony kisses him to quiet him, but it’s too late, really; however they do it, they know from a scent on the air, a look across his face, all the things that Anthony doesn’t have to tell them.

“No,” he finally says, reaching past for another cube of ice. “I was only startled.”

Will glances to Hannibal and keeps his smile in his eyes for now, bending to suck at Anthony’s fingers and steal the ice from him. Three of Will’s dogs are terrified of storms, two little ones and Maggie. They may find their snuggling interrupted soon by trembling furry bodies seeking safety in the sheets.

Joining an already trembling body in them.

Anthony’s heart hammers quick as Hannibal presses reverent kisses to it, holds him still, spreads his legs by lying between them. Will considers the open windows and barely latched screen door and, with a groan, goes to lock the house down.

The fans stay on.

The dogs pile in the living room for safety while still staying in the cool reach of the air.

When Will returns to bed, he rests atop Hannibal and laughs at the grunt from Anthony at the bottom.

"The storms in Louisiana were so loud," Will tells him. "Trees shrieking and the wind howling like the beast of hell itself. I built forts of blankets and sweaters to keep safe."

"Did they help?" Hannibal asks, amused, one hand back to settle in Will’s sweaty hair.

"Should we try it?"

“You’re making fun of me,” Anthony complains. He tries only in pretense to free himself from beneath Hannibal, his heart easing with the weight of both men atop him, and hooks his hands up over the headboard.

“Just a little,” Will agrees, grinning against Hannibal’s shoulder, brows lifting when Anthony gives him a rueful look.

“It isn’t my fault,” their poet fusses. “Thunderstorms aren’t common in England. I know what it is, I’m not scared of - of _sound_. It’s the anticipa-”

Lightning brightens the room just as a crack of thunder, as if on cue, pulls a violent curse from the man, heart jerking against his ribs again. He pales, eyes rolling upward as he tries to catch his breath again. The weight shifts on the bed as Maggie joins them with a whine, pressed close against the three men.

“I’m easily startled,” Anthony mutters.

“And ticklish,” Will points out.

A wary look darts to Hannibal. “Which has nothing to do with anything,” Anthony says.

"It can be quite the distraction," Hannibal reasons, and Anthony’s eyes widen, curse cut short, when clever fingers press to his skin and he writhes against them both.

"Don't! Stop - stop! Fucking stop, Christ -" Anthony is breathless, smile wide and eyes closed and body shaking with laughter and adrenaline. Will kisses his throat and wraps his arms around him tight as another peal of thunder rattles over them. They say nothing more of the poet’s genuine fear of the storm. Instead, Will turns to regard Hannibal over his shoulder, eyes narrowed in pleasure, and with a sigh the doctor stands from the bed to leave them for a moment.

"You beautiful man, can you be more perfect?" Will whispers, kissing soft against Anthony as the other lays on his stomach and spreads warm beneath the attention like a cat.

"Quite possibly, if I put in the effort," the poet mumbles, laughing when Maggie crawls closer, nuzzling against his side. "See, she understands me. Good girl, brave girl. They're both monsters aren’t they, making fun of us."

More lightning, another curse, and suddenly something heavy and warm covers them.

"The best, perhaps, would be cotton, but wool does tend to ease the sound."

"Fuck off," Anthony mumbles, curling up, as Will sits up and tents the sheet with a laugh, helping Hannibal secure it to the headboard, leaving long ends to drape over the sides of the bed to envelope them in a fort. The fans shift the fabric just barely, the air passes through, and Will rests on all fours to receive a kiss from Hannibal when the other lifts the sheet to join them.

"Hero," he tells him.

"Asshole."

"Language," Hannibal laughs and moves to slip to the other side of their embarrassed poet, stroking his hair and free hand in Maggie's short fur. "I did it for the dog."

Anthony reaches back to bring Will atop him again, sticky with sweat but comfortable beneath his weight, tilting his head to accept Will’s kisses across his cheek. He watches Hannibal with an unmistakable gratitude, before looking to the dog between them and settling a hand to her head.

“I have to admit,” Anthony says, “that when I envisioned taking a woman into bed with us, she had a great deal less fur.”

Will snorts a laugh between Anthony’s shoulders, and Hannibal moves his hand from Anthony’s hair to Will’s, tugging his curls straight and releasing them in little pulls.

“Have you often envisioned that?” he asks the poet.

“I often envision a great many things,” Anthony murmurs, flinching at another snap of the storm, and burying his face into the pillow. “But no. Not truly.” He considers both men, the familiar bed beneath and the warm tent around them, the dogs and the house.

Their home.

“I find that I don’t need to envision other things when I’m with you,” he admits.

Hannibal sets a hand to Anthony's hair, a reassuring weight, and strokes it, then moves his hand down his side, to the warm thighs and tense muscle. Slowly, Hannibal unfolds Anthony to hook his leg around the doctor, the dog trapped between them. They are a puppy pile of comfort and warmth. Had the man demanded a nest be made they would make it.

Hannibal thinks how he, too, does not want Anthony to leave them for a long time, if ever.

The thought is almost jarring. Almost.

"I think about that time we watched the sun go down over the stream, a lot," Will mumbles, draped sweaty and contented against his lovers. "Cool beer and home-grown wine and quiet."

"And skinny dipping."

Hannibal laughs, setting his head against the same pillow Anthony occupies and nuzzling him.

"Incorrigible."

“You took yours off first,” Will reminds Hannibal, leaning close to seek a kiss, and smiling softly when it’s granted.

“I was wearing a suit. It was, you’ll recall, rather warm.”

“Who wears a three-piece suit to go and sit by the river?” Anthony laughs. “Not that I minded, considering the result. I swear I could watch you two wet and naked for the rest of my life and not find myself wanting.”

Caught between them, he leans towards Will’s kiss, and he is held there by Hannibal’s lips against the other side. Clumsy, breathing laughter through their noses, they kiss altogether at once, teasing tongues together, heat and sweetness held between their mouths.

A lower rumble from overhead doesn’t startle their poet or the dog seemingly content to be squished among them, but Anthony’s throat clicks as he swallows, rubbing his cheek back against the pillow.

“I did begin to undress, first,” Hannibal acknowledges. “But I was not the first to go streaking bare into the water.”

"No, that was me," Anthony sighs and Will laughs against him. So many memories, now, of tipsy evenings and warm cuddling, of Anthony reading them his work as Will lay sprawled against him as Anthony was sprawled against Hannibal. Touching and kissing and endless breathless pleasure pulled from all of them.

Will gently unsettles the dog and guides her with soft words back to the others. He waits only a moment more before crawling over them both, kissing from Anthony's chest to Hannibal’s, up to his husband’s lips.

"I want to fuck you," he breathes, accepting another smile, another brush of lips as he rubs himself gently against them both, suddenly entirely aroused by the idea of taking his time, laying his claim, in a hot tent of cloth moved by slight breezes of the fan. They are like a harem. They are like beautiful creatures allowed to touch and play together.

"No," Will sighs after a moment, grinning against Hannibal as he drops a hand to cup Anthony’s cock through his shorts, stroking. "I am _going_ to fuck you."

The poet’s laugh, brows uplifted in genuine surprise, cuts short when a foreboding peal of thunder crackles overhead. His cock twitches, though, when his stomach clenches, and Will palms back harder between his legs. He sits back, stroking Anthony, stroking Hannibal, his attention especially focused on the latter.

Hannibal meets Will’s dark gaze with a curiosity of his own. It isn’t unheard of for them to switch positions - before Anthony helped settle them into a comfortable, wonderful routine, it was actually quite common. But he takes in the way Will juts his tongue against the corner of his mouth, and licks his lower hip between his teeth. His touch is a demand that his words echo. It is unusual to see Will so charged as this, considering how well-sated all three find themselves.

“Will you,” Hannibal asks, voice lowering.

Anthony’s breath catches, and he drapes the back of his hand across his mouth to keep himself quiet, just watching.

Perhaps it is the energy, electric around them and humming. Perhaps another distraction, for them all, though their poor poet in particular. Will suddenly feels that snarling ache to rend and bite and take him apart. He lets his eyes slip to Anthony’s and gives him a look, a promise of pleasure, a warmth beneath that is entirely fond, entirely genuinely loving.

"I will," Will whispers, eyes on Anthony as he addresses Hannibal. "Hard and deep, have you spread so wide for me, begging, by the end. Do you know that he is an excellent fuck?" Will directs his words aside, his eyes as well, a juxtaposition in his education. "Pliant and hungry for it."

“I’ve - I’ve imagined,” Anthony answers, a thrilling uncertainty snaring his words softer. “I’ve not had the opportunity.”

“No,” agrees Will. He takes his hand from between Hannibal’s legs and strokes his cheek, pushing his thumb against Hannibal’s mouth to make it yield, pushing his lips out of shape until the doctor parts them and accepts Will’s thumb. His cheeks hollow, suckling steady. “He doesn’t allow it from anyone else,” Will continues, eyes hooding. “Stubborn.”

Hannibal rumbles a sound much like the storm overhead, and it pulls Anthony’s cock to even stiffer attention. The next clap of thunder hardly moves their poet, fixated on Will’s darkening gaze and the pull of Hannibal’s lips.

“Turn over.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrow, and then widen as Will tugs his thumb free and sets his hand firm against Hannibal’s throat. A breathless sound escapes the older man, a distinct pleasure drawing up the muscles around his eyes.

“And you,” Will says to Anthony. “Get the lube.”

Anthony moves after only an instant of hesitation. He reaches out from beneath their little tent and fumbles for the drawer, seeking out the bottle within. He sits up, entirely ready, entirely willing, entirely fucking hard, and without being asked, slips Will’s shorts low enough to free his dick, moaning low when it bounces free of its confines. Uncapping the bottle, Anthony upturns a palmful of the clear liquid, and takes Will’s cock in hand to stroke it slick.

Will arches up, head back and hair brushing the top of their makeshift little shelter as he groans. Anthony has exceptional hands, elegant and large and quick. Will imagines them not just against his cock, but in his ass, stretching him wide. Another groan and Will sits up and bows his head forward, watching his husband who slowly, deliberately, turns over beneath him.

"Good," Will whispers, leaning down to catch Anthony beneath the chin and kiss him deep, rough there almost until the poet moans. "Watch," Will tells him, nuzzling soft against Anthony. "Watch him."

Will's hand seeks down to grab Hannibal's underwear, pulling it up and back to expertly bend Hannibal how he wants him, and bare him.

"Spread," he commands.

Hannibal watches Anthony watching him. A glimmer of amusement darkens the doctor’s eyes, as if sharing a private joke with Anthony that only they understand. He works his knees wider, until his briefs are pulled taut.

“I cannot, so bound,” Hannibal intones. His voice is like the purr - the growl - of a big cat and Anthony’s voice breaks from him before he can stop it. The sound that startles the poet now is not the storm crashing overhead, but the crack of skin against skin as Will brings a firm slap down against Hannibal’s ass.

He bends across his husband’s back, the blunt head of his cock already pushing against Hannibal’s hole. Will fists Hannibal’s greying strands and bends his head back, forcing his hips higher.

“Spread,” he says again, hissing through clenched teeth. “Wider, Hannibal. Wider.”

The elastic waistband of his briefs tugs tighter, cutting red lines against Hannibal’s thighs. Near to breaking the seams, he forces his legs as wide as he can, gaze sharpening and smile curving wider as Anthony reaches beneath to tuck Hannibal’s briefs beneath his balls and let his cock stand free.

It is mesmerizing watching someone like Hannibal controlled this way, obedient this way, willingly yielding, arching, welcoming Will’s fingers coated in cool lube deep in his ass with a groan.

"When we were first dating, I couldn't stand him," Will whispers harshly, bending to kiss hard against Hannibal’s back, nuzzling there with clear fondness and adoration. "The first time we fucked, we both left bruised, it had been a fight, not sex. A brutal and deep fucking."

His fingers, despite his words, are entirely gentle, carefully spreading his husband for this as Will turns to watch Anthony. 

"He loses his mind for a good deep fingering," Will whispers. "Fucking himself back against my fingers, mewling for more as I deny him. I love him on edge before I fuck him. You can touch him, if you like. Feel how hard he is from me treating him this way."

Hannibal says nothing to confirm his husband’s claims, but a lack of denial is as good as agreement. He says nothing, straining for silence, until Will turns his fingers and spreads them and Hannibal’s lips part with a helpless moan, despite himself. His dark eyes don’t leave Anthony as the poet brings his palm beneath Hannibal’s cock, so full and so stiff that Anthony imagines it must be nearly painful. He takes the weight of it into his hand and strokes once. Hannibal’s eyes nearly close in relief, and Anthony notices that his hands have gripped the sheet beneath them, clenched tight.

Anthony reaches with his other hand, letting it hover just above Hannibal’s ass. Permission is asked with a look to Will, who jerks his chin in a nod, and Anthony grasps a cheek to pull, stretching him wider, tighter, around Will’s skilled fingers.

“Who won?” Anthony asks. He’s nearly whispering now, his own dick standing against his belly, too struck by what’s happening to pay it any attention just now. “The fight,” he clarifies with a crooked grin.

Will laughs, low and warm, and bends to nuzzle between Hannibal’s shoulders, free hand easing down to work the briefs down past his knees so they don’t hurt his skin, stretched as they are.

“He had me,” Will replies softly. “I left marks against his back that he couldn’t forget for days.”

Anthony moans, soft and sweet. Will smiles at him, bending a little further to kiss the poet as he adds a third finger to Hannibal’s stretched hole and delights in the full-body shiver beneath him.

“Who do you think won the fight, Hannibal?” Will asks him, nuzzling Anthony.

Anthony chases Will for another kiss, relishing with a smile how playful Will is with him while at once being so stern with Hannibal. He knows Will has spread his fingers wide when Hannibal’s voice presses into the mattress, and Anthony milks Hannibal’s cock with his fist to drag out the sound.

“He bled for me,” Hannibal remarks, teeth gritting as he pushes himself back against Will’s fingers. He folds his arms beneath his cheek and watches as Will grins into Anthony’s kiss. “Dripping white and scarlet down his thighs. We both left victorious, the taste of the other between our teeth -”

Whatever Will does shortens Hannibal’s words to a hiss, and Anthony’s moan rises to join. He watches, rapt, the flickers of pain that tense Hannibal’s expression, the relief that eases him again. He is a beautiful man, powerful in a way that Anthony knows he’s scarcely scratched the surface of it. Intelligent and clever, talented and with - Anthony suspects - a penchant for cruelty… he loves them both, profoundly, but Hannibal is an intoxicant, like smoking opium in Morocco or eating mushrooms in the Mojave. Anthony watches, fixated, every pull of muscle in his throat, the fluid shift of strength along his back.

And he watches Will, a darkness to his eyes, to his manner that Anthony suspects he needs to keep Hannibal subdued. It is a thrill to see him channel his unusual talent for reading people into something like this. It is a revelation to glimpse this side of him, as he cracks his hand once more across Hannibal’s ass, and snatches him by the hair, aligning his cock with the other hand.

“We both?”

“You,” Hannibal whispers, and Anthony lets his hands return to himself, gripping his cock only to stop himself from coming right then and there. “You won.”

“I did,” Will purrs, almost a whine as well in his pleasure, as he rocks slowly enough against Hannibal just to tease. “I did win, and you kept coming back to try and take my victory away.”

“Until I married you,” Hannibal says, and Will’s laugh breaks sweet and delighted, almost breaking the dark tension he had built between them with the game, almost, because as he laughs he turns his hips and a shove, deep and quick, penetrates Hannibal enough to arch his back.

“Snared me with a ring and pulled me close and haven’t let me go since,” Will whispers, lips parted at the tightness and pressure of his husband around him, so rarely bared and made vulnerable this way in front of others, but so pliant, so horny, so hungry for it now. “I love you.”

This splinters Hannibal more than Will’s cock in his ass. This splinters Hannibal more than the poet’s gentle fingers stroking sweat-thick hair from his brow. He arches like a cat and his spine caves, hips shoved high and mouth slack as Will fucks the breath from him. Anthony strokes himself so hard it hurts, fist clenched fast around the sensitive, dripping head of his dick, when he watches Hannibal’s lips form the words:

“I love you.”

Anthony digs his heels into the mattress as if he’s the one being plowed into the bed, as if it’s his ass that Will pulls wide, as if it’s his spine against which Will whispers adorations not meant for Anthony’s ears. He imagines them anyway, soft things about what once was and is now, harsh things about what should be and what is not. The poet grasps his cock as if it were the pen with which he could capture this moment in words rather than fleeting carnal sensation.

But it’s meant to be sensation, isn’t it?

An intimacy far beyond sex shared with him, with only him.

And when blue eyes flash to meet his, he knows his wanting is laid bare on his face. Anthony leans close to bend his mouth against Will’s and feel the quickness of his breath, panted sharp against his cheek. He pulls away to lean low and tease his tongue against Hannibal’s lips, before plunging it deep.

Hannibal moans, hands seeking out against the poet to grasp his shoulder, up into his hair, seeking stability and support as Will continues to pound into him, drive him deeper into the mattress as the sheet above them flutters with every movement of the bed against the wall. Hannibal is flushed, he is helpless, he is entirely giving himself to the younger man above him, entirely in love, trusting, vulnerable.

Beautiful. He is beautiful.

Anthony tells him so and Hannibal’s lips part on another of those weak little moans. More words that shatter him, more words that cut deep and stay and heal within him.

“Do not,” Will whispers, pressing his cheek to Hannibal as he slows his thrusting. “Either of you, do not come, not yet.”

This time, it’s Anthony who shares a secret joke with Hannibal, their gazes locked until their mouths join again instead. Will watches as the poet kisses the doctor. Both are his. And both listen, attentive, to his orders despite how hard he knows they are, how close to climax. Anthony’s elegant fingers rest against Hannibal’s cheek, framing his face as their kiss twists softly together.

And then he looks to Will, smile spreading like the cat that ate the canary. He drags himself slowly away, down the bed, he drags his mouth along the ferocious curves of Hannibal’s body, over Will’s hands that hold his hips firmly in place, past the join of their bodies, until he feels Will’s ass curve beneath his mouth. Setting himself to hands and knees, Anthony sets a hand to the small of Will’s back to keep him bent.

Between Will’s cheeks, Anthony buries his face, tongue stroking hard against his hole. Nevermind sweat. Nevermind the musky, dizzying scent of sex and maleness around them. All the matters is the way Will’s body tightens. All that matters is his cry that bursts when Anthony wraps his lips around to suck.

Will laughs, helpless and sweaty and aroused, and barely notices the thunder around them, barely notices the lightning. Perhaps it’s just Hannibal’s growl of pleasure, perhaps just the sparks behind his eyes. It feels so good, it is filthy and sweaty and possessive. Everyone owns everyone, Will holding Hannibal in thrall, Anthony stealing Will’s breath, Hannibal reaching back to stroke Anthony. A moan shuddered from one passes through them all. 

A feedback loop of pleasure.

“Not yet,” Will moans, pressing open lips to Hannibal’s back as Anthony eats him out, takes him apart. “Not yet, not yet - fuck -”

Not heeding his own command, Will comes hard and hot in Hannibal’s ass, thick and deep and slow, rocking into him again and again, and back against Anthony’s clever, clever tongue.

He bears down harder as Will clenches, tightening again and again. Anthony lets himself see behind his eyelids, as he has so many times before, the pulsing spurts of Will’s cock, the thick ropes of semen now laying claim to Hannibal’s insides. Bent over his husband, mounted into him, the thoughts are enough that Anthony forgoes touching himself entirely, tonguing Will’s ass until he’s jerked free by his hair.

He goes, laughing, to the bed again, blinking sleepy with pleasure up at Will above him, Hannibal beside. The storm-dampened light from outside their blanket-tent casts them both in faded contrast and Anthony bites his lip to stop from telling them both that he loves them.

They know.

They have to know.

“Now?” he asks instead, when he trusts himself enough to speak. Face smeared with his own spit, body slick with sweat, cock dripping shameless over his flat belly, he reaches for himself but finds his hand caught. Will bends him with it and Anthony follows to his knees, flinching - then moaning - at the current of pain that ripples through him.

“His mouth,” Will tells the poet. “Let me see it.”

Anthony curses, Hannibal squirms beneath his husband, in displeasure or delight it’s hard to tell. Will pulls free of him and strokes a hand through Hannibal’s hair before snaring it and tilting his head up, just enough that he is facing Anthony’s cock, lips barely touching it, eyes dark and lifted to the poet who kneels above him.

Never have they been reversed this way, never would they again, Anthony thinks, and there is a shiver that runs through him, as much fear as delight, at knowing he can sully this perfect man and suffer his punishment for it later, enjoy it just as much as this.

And he is enjoying this, slowly stroking himself so close to Hannibal’s lips. Will turns his hand just a little, just enough, and Hannibal’s lips part wider, obedient, and Anthony can’t, anymore, not when something so filthy is asked of him and of the beautiful and collected man before him. He comes, hard and slick ropes of fluid against Hannibal’s lips and down his chin, over his throat as his eyes close and he moans, low and menacing, and Will slips a hand between his legs and whispers to him softly that he can come.

Anthony has always been brave. Foolish, maybe, is a better word for it, but it hardly matters. Delight bubbles up from him in a laugh as he milks himself dry against Hannibal’s cheek, shivering at the sensation of soft, close-shaven skin against the slit of his cock. Slowly, he drags the tip to Hannibal’s lips, and scooping up from his chin a dollop of white, he feeds it into Hannibal’s mouth with a shudder.

“Good,” Will praises Hannibal as his lips curl around to suck Anthony clean. “Good,” Will murmurs to his husband, as Hannibal spills thrusting against his palm. This is offered to Anthony, always wanting for it, and he twines his tongue through Will’s fingers to tease long strands of semen away from his skin. It clings in threads between his lips, deliberately sloppy.

“I’m going to get spanked for this,” he observes, almost absently, as Hannibal releases Anthony’s cock with a soft _pop_.

Will grins at him, bending to kiss against the back of Hannibal’s neck, nosing against the damp hair pressed to his skin there. He can imagine, that once they have all woken from their stupor of pleasure and heat, that Hannibal would use the sheet to tether their poet to the bed, teach him the heat of his palm against his ass and thighs.

Hannibal groans, shivering and curling himself into bed as Will lays atop him, seeks out with his hand to pull Anthony near and kiss the come from his lips, tasting Hannibal there, tasting the muskiness of himself.

“After the storm,” he murmurs. “Once the thunder has passed, we’ll share a shower.”

“Will we?” Anthony mumbles, laying against them both, all of them settling in their little tent of safety as around them the rain pounds the little house. “I would suspect a punishment for something so filthy would be much the same.”

“It might be,” Hannibal comments, nuzzling the pillow and wrapping his arms around Anthony in front of him as Will lazily crawls over them both and holds Anthony from behind. “But a shower is imperative.”

“Why?” Anthony laughs, wriggling close and warm between them both, despite the heat around them, despite the fan and the rain and anything else. Will kisses just behind his ear.

“It hurts far more to be spanked against a bare wet ass,” is all he says, smiling when Anthony curses and buries his face against Hannibal’s chest.


End file.
